THURSDAY
In my cell, Thursday evening, October 2.
This morning is cloudy and dark; it has been raining heavily during the
night, and the atmosphere is damp and oppressive. Oppressive too is the
feeling left by the unexplained occurrences of last evening.
My first visitor is Officer X, the man who wouldn't answer my question
last evening when he was standing back of the Warden and I asked him what
that noise was. This morning he is exceedingly bland and also, like the
weather, oppressive. He is so very anxious to know how I passed the night;
and I tell him. He then says that a thousand people have inquired of him
about me; and I remark that I'm glad my experiment is arousing so much
interest. He then says that several men have said to him that I must have
something special in mind, that I must be here for some ulterior purpose,
and they believe the result will be some dismissals among the officers; to
which I say that doubtless there are many people who, not having taken the
trouble to read my address in the chapel last Sunday, although it was
printed in the newspapers, are quite ready to believe anything except the
simple truth.
He then enters upon a long rigmarole, the gist of which is how necessary
it is for a man to do his duty; with which novel sentiment I express my
entire agreement. Then he adds that he has always been careful to do his
own duty; upon which I make the startling comment that it is in the long
run the best course to pursue. Then he casually turns the conversation
around to show how closely connected he is to various admirers of my
father and myself, and gracefully insinuates that he also shares these
feelings; to which I can answer nothing, as this sort of thing always
reduces me to embarrassed and wrathful silence. I hate to tell a man that
he's a fool, and I hate quite as much to have him take me for one.
As the officer stands there talking, it is borne in upon me that he not
only knows all about last night's disturbance, but that he was probably
concerned in it, and is now deliberately trying to switch me off the
track. He would not answer my question last night, and he avoids all
reference to the matter this morning, substituting for the explanation
which he knows I want, for he heard me speak to the Warden about it last
evening, all this stuff I have outlined. Instead of being frank and
telling the plain truth about last night's occurrence, he is trying to
flatter me and pull the wool over my eyes.
He walks away and the taste in my mouth is not pleasant.
Soon Captain Kane unlocks the levers, and George presses them down to
release us for a new day. I regret to say that I again create some
confusion on the gallery by being late; but, as there is trouble with the
lock on the tier around the corner, I catch up while the front of the line
is held back by the delay.
Marching down the yard, my interest is aroused by a long, whispered
conversation between Roger Landry at my side and Jack Bell who is
immediately in front of him. Neither is farther than a foot or so away,
yet my ears are not sensitive enough to catch a single word of what they
say; and when I glance toward Landry I am unable to detect the faintest
motion of his lips, although the talk is still going on.
Upon return from bucket duty I sweep out the cell, finding it for some
reason especially dirty. Soon after I have finished this task, I come into
possession, through a channel it is best not to specify, of an account of
last night's performance, including the names of most of the actors. I
judge that it is a bad business. This is the story as it comes to me.[9]
Three of the officers, among them X (just as I suspected), went into the
cell of a young prisoner on one of the upper tiers of the south side, hit
him over the head, handcuffed and dragged him downstairs very roughly. His
offense seems to have been that he is bughouse through confinement in the
jail. So in their enlightened wisdom they have sent him back there; to
cure him, I suppose, on the homeopathic principle, _similia similibus
curantur_.
Before the march to breakfast George kindly brings me another package of
sugar. It is evidently of distinct advantage, in more ways than one, to
stand well with the trusties; I wish I knew them all, but possibly some
may be afraid to show themselves at the door of my cell. I have a vague
feeling that it is being closely watched.
Breakfast to-day consists of some kind of porridge, with the usual
bootleg and punk. Thanks to George, I do not need the sugar which Landry
again offers me; and, having more than enough for my own portion of
porridge, I silently pass what I have left to my neighbor on the other
side, who receives it without daring to express any evidence of gratitude.
Arrived back in my cell, George stops to have a pleasant chat with me, and
tells me a little about himself and his experiences. Then, after the usual
operations attendant upon our release from the cells, we march down the
yard and arrive at the basket-shop, ready for the business of the day.
Murphy is on hand with his usual cheerful smile:
"Well, good morning, Tom."
"Good morning, Jack." And upon this more intimate footing we commence our
fourth day's work together.
As I left a bottom incomplete last evening, I begin work with vigor in
order to finish it; but unfortunately the rattan we are now using is so
stiff and rotten that it not only breaks constantly and is very hard on
the fingers, but makes good workmanship quite impossible. Finally we are
compelled to stop altogether, while the withes are taken and soaked in hot
water, instead of the cold water in which they have been lying over night.
Once in a while we have been getting soft and pliable withes that make
work easy and pleasant, but most of them have been very brittle and
difficult to handle.
While we are waiting for material, I hear the name of Brown called out;
and find that I am told off, along with Jack and a number of others, to
help pull up another car. This time it is lumber and not coal; the
identical lumber, in fact, that stood in front of the north windows and
caused the P. K. such anxiety about our eyesight yesterday afternoon.
The gang is duly counted and handed over to the officer charged with the
job; and soon we are enjoying the exercise of successive tugs of war with
the block and tackle, similar to those of Tuesday. It is not so hard a job
as that was, however, there being but one car and that a comparatively
light one; so Jack and I regret that our spell of exercise is not longer
and stronger. It is far better than nothing, however, and we return,
refreshed and invigorated, to our basket-work.
While we are waiting for working material, Jack approaches me cautiously,
leaning against the table with a very listless air, as if nothing were
further from his thoughts than a subject of serious import.
"Did you hear anything last night, Tom?" he asks, turning his face just
enough in my direction to reach me with his voice, which is subdued to
its lowest tone.
"Did I? I should think I did," is my low reply. "What can you tell me
about it?"
Jack repeats the story substantially as I have already heard it. The
affair happened in one of the upper tiers almost directly over him, but he
could see nothing of it, and he only heard the details through others. He
thinks it is a bad matter, and adds one new item of information. He says
that a certain trusty has threatened to go to the Warden about the case;
he told the P. K. to his face that he would do so, and the P. K.
threatened the trusty with retaliation if he did; but that the man feels
so outraged by the brutality he witnessed that he intends to do it in
spite of the P. K.[10]
I know this particular trusty and should be sorry to have him get the
ill-will of the P. K., or any of the prison authorities. So I decide to
try to take steps to prevent this. Convicts, as I have already hinted,
have underground means of communication of which the officials do not
always know.
The truth of this last statement was demonstrated in an interesting way
this morning. Strict orders were given by the Warden when I first came
here that there was to be no photographing. We cannot prevent publicity
about this affair of mine. But at least we can, and have, cut out the
moving pictures; and discouraged other attempts to exploit and emphasize
the personal side of it. It is not our fault if many of the newspapers
print ridiculous statements which are not founded upon fact.
I have, by the way, been seeing a number of newspapers, as the men in the
shop are all keenly interested and are anxious to share with me any "Tom
Brown dope" that comes their way. Every day half a dozen papers reach me
in roundabout ways. I always read them, taking care to lurk behind a post
or otherwise screen myself from the eye of the Screw. Captain Kane, like
Captain Lamb, evidently feels that it is well to temper discipline with
tact and discretion. He is firm in manner, quiet and self-contained,
allowing no liberties from anyone, but evidently bent upon doing his duty
and at the same time being kindly and fair in his treatment of the men.
What I started to say was that the order against photography was obeyed
until to-day. There is doubtless a good reason for this morning's
exception--I have to leave that for the Warden to explain; but while Jack
and I were talking, one of the convicts passing behind me said in an
undertone, "Look out, Brown! Camera inside."
In due course of time, Grant makes his appearance, showing around a
visitor who carries a kodak. He makes no attempt to exercise the machine
in our neighborhood, and is simply shown through like any other visitor.
Not long after he is gone the hour of noon approaches. We form in due
order, and, while awaiting the signal to start, for the first time I dare
to turn my head sufficiently to get a good look at the dapper young
prisoner who leads the right line of our company, the back of whose head
and manner of marching had so pleased me. And whom should I discover him
to be but my own boss, Harley Stuhlmiller. Here have I been three days
marching behind him ten times a day, and seeing him at frequent intervals
all day long in the shop; and now for the first time I am able to match
his face and the back of his head together. This gives a good idea of the
remoteness of man and man in this unnatural place.
We make our usual march down to the stands, where each man secures his
bucket, and then back up the length of the yard.
Sure enough--there he is. The camera fiend is standing with Grant and some
others just outside of the main door. Evidently he has not been told that
at noon we turn aside to the door leading into the north wing; it is only
at night that we march directly into the main building in order to secure
our bread for supper. The men quickly catch the humor of the situation,
and there is a deal of quiet enjoyment of the photographer's
disappointment. He hastens down toward us, but only succeeds in snapping
our rear ranks as we enter the building. Tom Brown has escaped him.
It is certainly wonderful how news gets about in this prison. From what
the Warden tells me this evening, it could not have been more than half an
hour after the man with his kodak entered the front gate before the
warning of his camera was received by me, over at the farther end of the
yard. The Marconi system hasn't very much advantage in speed over the
wireless telegraphy of the prison.
My first action upon getting back to the cell is to get my own telegraphic
system in working order, so as to get word to that trusty who has
threatened to go to the Warden about last night's occurrence. I want him
told not to attempt to go over the head of the P. K., but to leave the
whole matter to me. I send two messages through the secret channels and
then get ready for dinner.
That meal, when we reach the mess-hall, turns out to be corned beef,
potatoes, an excellent pickled beet, and the usual bread and coffee. I
eat with more relish than usual, and find the time allotted for the meal
altogether too short for a proper enjoyment of it. Or perhaps the word
enjoyment is a little too strong--let us say, for a proper disposal of it.
Upon returning to my cell I find a piece of paper folded up to its
smallest capacity lying on the floor. It is a note from one of my fellow
prisoners--a kite, to use the proper term. I have been receiving such
documents ever since I came. They reach me in all sorts of ways; all of
which ways are of course forbidden. Some of the notes are business-like,
some are rambling and incoherent, some are sad, some are humorous, all are
characteristic and good tempered. The majority contain requests to see the
writers, after I get through my bit. Some go into long accounts of
themselves and their experiences. One has written a good-sized pamphlet,
telling his life-story in considerable detail. All of them are filled with
a pathetic sense of gratitude toward Tom Brown, their new pal. They seem
to think that I am making an unheard-of sacrifice for their sakes.
It is curious how far away is the feeling of dread of this place that I
used to have; that I must confess to have had even when I decided to come
here. Exactly the same, I imagine, as one would feel about entering a den
of wild beasts, except that these were capable of being talked to and
reasoned with. I suppose I did have some little, a very little, notion of
personal danger, which now seems wholly absurd. I have at present a sense
of companionship and sympathy with these men, as warm and strong as I have
ever felt anywhere. It is accompanied, of course, by a great feeling of
pity for their mistakes, the bitterness of their expiation, and the
well-nigh hopeless difficulty under present conditions of regaining their
hold upon life.
After the regular period of rest in the cell after dinner, and my usual
calls from the trusties, we march back to the shop. The routine is always
the same. Again I hear the clicking far away to the left around the
corner. Whereupon I rise from my shelf-table, unhook and drop it down, put
away my writing materials in the locker, and don my coat and cap. Again
the Captain passes by, unlocking the levers as he goes. He quickly
finishes the remainder of the cells on this side of the tier, then
repasses, pressing down each lever just long enough to allow the grated
door to be pushed open by the prisoner waiting inside. Again I shove my
door open as quickly as possible and follow immediately after the Captain;
for all the men who belong in front of me in the line lock in farther
along the gallery. When we reach their cells I drop behind enough to give
them their proper places, and thus there is a minimum of disorder when we
have descended the flight of iron stairs to the door and are lining up in
double column for our march down the yard.
The marches too are always the same--day after day--with only slight
variations; as for instance the one after breakfast when, as it is
unnecessary to visit the sewage disposal building, we march directly to
the shop. But this afternoon it is the same as all afternoons; short-step
at first until all the company have reached the walk; then a rap of the
keeper's stick and full-step down the yard; swing around to the left;
through the sewage disposal building for the benefit of the few who bring
down their buckets in the afternoon; a momentary pause at the stands and
then away to the shop. As we go down the half dozen steps into the
building we break ranks and Jack Murphy comes up from his place, somewhere
in the rear, with his usual pleasant greeting.
"Well, Tom, how did you enjoy your dinner?"
"It was all right, only to-day I didn't have time enough to eat it."
"No, they cut us pretty short sometimes at dinner."
No incident of particular interest happens this afternoon. My fingers are
getting rather stiff and sore, working with the hard and brittle rattan
that they give us. It is discouraging to attempt good work with such
material, but we do the best we can. Stuhlmiller has taken the matter up
with John, the citizen instructor, whose last name I have not yet learned,
and with Captain Kane. They are thinking about repairing an old vat where
the withes can be properly heated and softened by steam. That is all
right, but it won't help my fingers much, as I shall be out of here long
before it is done.
About my going out there is a little joke. Every man wants to know how
long I'm going to stay here. I tell them I don't see how I can remain
beyond Sunday, as there is business I have to attend to in New York City
next week. Whereupon Jack winks his eye and, speaking to the questioner in
a loud whisper, says, "Oh, these new guys are always thinkin' they ain't
going to stay long. New trial, or pardon or something. He'll be here for
some time yet, so don't you worry. He's a little bug about going right
out, you know." A joke which has its non-humorous side; founded, as it
undoubtedly is, upon many a grim fact. As the Scotch saying runs, "A true
joke is no joke."
In the course of the afternoon, talking again of last night's occurrences
upon which no further light has come, I retail to Jack my visit from
Officer X this morning, and that gentleman's conversation. At the
conclusion Jack looks over to me with scorn on his honest face and blurts
out, "Say! I wonder what they take you for anyway!"
"For a damn fool, evidently; that is, some of them do," is my answer. "But
fortunately, Jack, they can't be all like that. Probably these officers
last night were afraid that I should hear the disturbance that young
fellow was making, and felt that they must hustle and get him out of the
way on that account. At least that's how I am inclined to figure it out."
"Well," says Jack, "some of them seem awful anxious to know all about you.
They come around to my cell every night and ask after my partner's health,
and want me to tell them about everythin' you say and do. But you can bet
I throw 'em off the track. Say," he continues, "I just wish you could have
seen one of the screws last night when he asked me how long you were goin'
to stay here, and I told him that from what I heard you say I judged it
wouldn't be much over two months. Gee! but you should have seen his face!
He was just horrified." And Jack laughs heartily at the recollection.
"Too bad to give the poor fellow a jolt like that. But after all, Jack,
the keepers act a good deal as most any of us would in their places."
This kindly view is not perhaps altogether sincere on my part; but I do
not wish to use my influence to stir up trouble between the keepers and
the prisoners. Without standing up for the keepers when they are
wrong--to do that would be to forfeit the confidence of my companions, I
shall do my best to make the men feel that resistance to authority is both
foolish and useless. Prisoners cannot expect to have things to their
liking; but neither can keepers expect their charges to be blind to
hypocrisy, or to acquiesce in brutality.
In the course of the afternoon I have a long and pleasant talk with Jack
Bell. A convenient post is just at my right, behind which Bell stands,
screened from the view of the Captain. I can talk low without turning my
head, and the officer cannot tell that I am not talking to Murphy. As
everything else is going on as usual and the men working near pay no
attention, not even looking at us, we are able to enjoy quite a prolonged
conversation. Finally, however, the Captain seems to suspect something and
steps down from his platform, but Bell glides off quietly and with an
admirable innocent air of business. The Captain returns to his seat,
apparently satisfied.
After Bell has dropped away, I have a long and interesting discussion with
my partner. For some years I have felt that the principles of
self-government, as developed at the Junior Republic, might probably be
the key to the solution of the prison problem; but as yet I have not been
able to see clearly just how to begin its application. There have seemed
to be almost insuperable difficulties. In this connection Jack makes a
suggestion which supplies a most important link in the chain.
In discussing the various aspects of prison life, the better and the
worse, the harder and the less hard, we reach the subject of the long and
dreary Sundays. Jack agrees with all those with whom I have talked that
the long stretch in the cells, from the conclusion of the chapel service,
between ten-thirty and eleven o'clock Sunday morning until seven o'clock
Monday morning--over twenty hours, is a fearful strain both physical and
mental upon the prisoners.
"Well, Jack," I say, "from what I have heard Superintendent Riley say, I
feel sure he would like to give the men some sort of exercise or
recreation on Sunday afternoons; but how could it be managed? You can't
ask the officers to give up their day off, and you don't think the men
could be trusted by themselves, do you?"
"Why not?" says Jack.
I look at him, inquiringly.
"Why, look here, Tom!" In his eagerness Jack comes around to my side of
our working table. "I know this place through and through. I know these
men; I've studied 'em for years. And I tell you that the big majority of
these fellows in here will be square with you if you give 'em a chance.
The trouble is, they don't treat us on the level. I could tell you all
sorts of frame-ups they give us. Now if you trust a man, he'll try and do
what's right; sure he will. That is, most men will. Of course, there are a
few that won't. There are some dirty curs--degenerates--that will make
trouble, but there ain't so very many of those.
"Look at that road work," he continues. "Haven't the men done fine? How
many prisoners have you had out on the roads? About one hundred and
thirty. And you ain't had a single runaway yet. And if there should be any
runaways you can just bet we'd show 'em what we think about it."[11]
"Do you really think, Jack, that the Superintendent and the Warden could
trust you fellows out in the yard on Sunday afternoons in summer?"
"Sure they could," responds Jack, his face beginning to flush with
pleasure at the thought. "And there could be a band concert, and we'd have
a fine time. And it would be a good sight better for us than being locked
in our cells all day. You'd have fewer fights on Monday, I know that."
"Yes, it would certainly be an improvement on spending the afternoon in
your cells," I remark. "Then in rainy weather you could march to the
chapel and have some sort of lecture or debate; or Mr. Kurtz and I would
come down occasionally and give you a violin and piano recital."
"Sure," says Jack; adding with a smile, "the boys would like that best of
all, you know." (It takes an Irishman to slide in a delicate compliment in
passing.)
"Well, that would all be first rate," is my interested comment; "but how
about the discipline? Would you let everybody out into the yard? What
about those bad actors who don't know how to behave? Won't they quarrel
and fight and try to escape?"
"But don't you see, Tom, that they couldn't do that without putting the
whole thing on the bum, and depriving the rest of us of our privileges?
You needn't be afraid we couldn't handle those fellows all right. Or why
not let out only those men who have a good conduct bar? That's it," he
continues, enthusiastically warming up to his subject, "that's it, Tom, a
Good Conduct League. And give the privilege of Sunday afternoons to the
members of the league. I'll tell you, Tom! you know last year we got up an
Anti-swearing League here in this shop, and we had a penalty for every
oath or dirty word. The forfeits were paid with matches. You know matches
are pretty scarce here, don't you? Well, we had a grand success with that
league. But this Good Conduct League would be a much bigger thing. It
would be just great. And go! sure it'll go."
"Well, Jack, perhaps you've hit the right nail on the head. We'll think it
over, and talk more about it to-morrow."
Thus I close the conversation, wishing time to consider Jack's suggestion
before we continue discussing a subject so big with possibilities. Sunday
afternoon may be the key to the whole situation, and Jack may have found
the key to the question of Sunday afternoon.
Toward the end of the day, when we have finished our work and Jack is
sweeping up, I first read all the newspapers which have floated in my
direction, and then take a long walk in stretches of ten feet or so. Our
talk has given me much to think about. Jack, after finishing his sweeping,
also walks, but in a different direction; for there is a strict rule that
no two convicts may walk together. I manage at times to stretch my course
a little, on one side or another, and whisper a word or two to some of the
other prisoners. My remarks are always greeted with a ready smile and a
pleasant gleam of the eye--even in the case of a poor fellow whose face
shows that he is lacking in ordinary intelligence.
Closing time comes. "Good night, Jack!" "Good night, Tom!" (I got ahead of
my partner this time.) We form in line; the old men and cripples start off
first; the rest of us march up the steps and along the tracks; then after
pausing at the bucket stands, swing up the yard to the main building;
where I seize my bread, clamber up the iron steps; pass a whispered word
or two to some of my special friends as we separate for the night; take my
tin cup of fresh water which stands on the shelf; stand for a moment at
the cell entrance watching the fellows pass who lock in around the corner;
and then pull to my iron grated door, locking myself in for the night. I
never perform this last operation and hear the click of the lever which
announces that I am fastened securely in my cell, without a feeling of
resentment. At least, if a man is to be caged like this, it ought to be
done by visible exercise of authority. They shouldn't expect him to lock
his own cage. Speaking as a convict, I call it adding insult to injury.
* * * * *
The following is Jack Murphy's description of the regular routine: "On
reaching his gallery each inmate must go direct to his cell, closing his
iron door to within an inch of the catch, where the lever falls in place.
He must then stand with hands on his iron-grated door until the Captain
(who is now on his way, locking up) reaches his cell; then the convict
pulls in his door, the lever falls into its catch and the Captain
simultaneously inserts his large key into a lock at the side, locking the
lever so that it cannot be raised. He then counts his company.
"The process of counting is done in this manner: the Captain, in passing
each cell, takes hold of the lever while the inmate shakes his door
vigorously. In this way the Captain does two mental things at one time,
namely: he assures himself that each cell door is securely locked, and
that his charge is behind that secured lock. This procedure is continued
until the last cell and convict is counted. Then the iron bar which runs
the length of the gallery is let down by a lever operated by the Captain
at the end of the gallery. This bar runs in front of an iron rod or arm
attached outward from the cell door. It is twenty inches long by half an
inch square, and is fastened to the left side of the cell door.
"I forgot to say that, after the lever, which lowers the long iron bar, is
pulled down, it is also treated to the lock-up system. A Yale lock is used
for this purpose; so you see the poor dumb iron is even a victim to the
Prison System.
"In case of illness, after the prison is closed for the night, an officer
has to go to the trouble of running up to the front hall for the key of
the gallery on which the convict is ill. This would take him 15 minutes to
do; and after he got through unlocking all the locks and pulling the
lever the convict might be fit for an undertaker instead of a doctor.
"A convict must not loiter on his gallery. This is considered by some
captains a serious offense; and as for talking--good night! This last is
as bad as if you were charged with talking out of your cell to your
next-door neighbor. A report for such an offense would read something like
this: 'Convict Brown is reported by Captain Jeff [or Mutt] for the
following: Loitering on the gallery, talking and causing general
disorder.' Next morning Convict Brown would hit the Booby Hatch for three
or four days and a fine of $5.00."
Jack's statement is, of course, correct. I knew that I was taking a chance
in whispering; but I got away with it, all right. So do others, including
Jack himself.
To understand fully the Prison System it should be added that this long
iron bar, which forms the third lock and about which so much fuss is made,
only exists in the basement and second tier in the North Wing, and not at
all in the South Wing. There is no discrimination made, by confining the
more dangerous men in the extra-locked cells. But, gravely, every night
and morning, that silly extra bar is lowered and raised for a small
percentage of the prisoners--a ridiculous waste of time and energy.
* * * * *
This evening has been marked by a visit from the Chaplain, who has
returned from Syracuse. He tells me that my experiment has aroused great
interest among the clergymen assembled at a religious conference he has
been attending; that he has had to answer countless questions. He also
tells me that he is returning there again this evening and will telephone
to the gentleman who was proposing to employ his assistant, Dickinson, and
see if work cannot possibly be found for him. I tell the Chaplain of my
letter, and beg him to add assurance of my own belief in the young man's
stability and intention to do right.
Later the Warden comes. He brings me, as usual, a copy of the Auburn
newspaper, so that I must set this down as the third exception that is
made in my case. As a regular newcomer I should not be allowed a
newspaper.
I ask the Warden about last night's disturbance. He has inquired into it,
he says, and found it was only a case of a troublesome fellow, sent up
from Sing Sing recently, who was making some little disturbance in the
gallery. After they admonished him he wouldn't stop, so they had to take
him down to the jail. When the officer entered his cell, he threw his
bucket at the officer and there was a little row. "I'm inclined to think,"
adds the Warden, "that he may be a little bit crazy, and I'm going to look
into it."
"I suppose that is the official version," I remark to the Warden. "Well, I
certainly hope you will look further into it; for, speaking frankly, I
think they are trying to slip one over on you. If my information is
correct, and I believe it is, the case is rather different from what you
have told me; and the treatment given the young fellow was inexcusably
brutal."
I put the matter rather mildly to the Warden, for I don't want him to
think that I am losing my balance and taking everything that is said to me
by all my fellow-prisoners as gospel truth. To believe everything they say
would doubtless be as stupid as to believe nothing.
The Warden and I again discuss the desirability of my working in one of
the other shops during the remaining time here; but after full
consideration we both feel that more is to be gained by staying where I
am. There is only a day and a half left.
"You still feel, then, as if you wanted to try the jail?" asks the Warden.
"Yes, more so than ever," I answer, "for I must find out why the prisoners
all speak of it with such horror. When you showed me the place last June,
I thought it a very uncomfortable hole, and it was not pleasant to think
about afterward. But there must be some such place to put men who defy all
authority; and it didn't strike me as so very terrible. These fellows all
speak of it with bated breath and a queer look in the eyes, as though it
held some ghastly recollection. What can it be?"
"I'm sure I don't know," answers the Warden.
"Well, neither do I, and I want to find out. Of course," I add, "I'm not
going to be foolish about the thing. If I find I don't feel well enough
for any reason, when Saturday comes, I shall just cut it out. But if my
physical condition continues as good as it is now, I mean to try it."
"All right," says the Warden. "I wanted to know, so that I can give orders
to have one of those jail suits washed. There is no need of your running
any unnecessary risk in the matter, and those dirty old clothes I don't
like."
This is my first knowledge of the custom of giving the prisoners who are
sent to the punishment cells clothes especially reserved for the jail; and
my thoughts travel at once to the filthy and disreputable garments I had
seen on a prisoner the Warden had once interviewed there in my presence.
"Well, I shall appreciate it if I can have a clean suit," I said. "There's
no reason, I suppose, why I should not accept that exception."
So it is arranged. The Warden's visit comes to an end, and another day of
my voluntary exile from society is closed.
Now for another long and restless night.
I shall not mind so much the periods of wakefulness to-night. Jack
Murphy's Good Conduct League will give me plenty of food for thought. I
believe he has struck the path for which I have been groping.